The REAL Reason He Killed the Comedian
by themuse123
Summary: "He had spent hours on that damn map..."


**This story takes place in the comic book universe, with one small exception- Adrian is the one who leads the Crimebusters meeting, not Captain Metropolis. Enjoy!**

The Real Reason He Killed the Comedian

_"The creative habit is like a drug. The particular obsession changes, but the excitement, the thrill of your creation lasts." - _Henry Moore

Adrian Veidt had put up with a lot of things.

The dismal and repetitive "cat-and-mouse" he had played with petty criminals in his early years (and the unavoidable guilt therein). The ongoing matrimony between Big Business and violence, as both artificial and man-made propellants fueled the Cold War as effectively as they fueled cars and power plants. Frozen parameters pushed to the limit, all-mighty Red Tape cut to make way for the King… He had come a long way from the curious and well-meaning seventeen-year-old he'd been lifetimes ago.

And yet no such problem had arisen as incorrigible as the Comedian.

Truly, the man was a bastard.

He had hated him since their first infamous meeting. Not really a meeting in _civil _terms, it was more of a pissing contest. The fight was unavoidable, as Adrian's pride would not let him walk away unwounded… in more ways than one. God, he had a devastating uppercut…

And a devastating smile. Blast the devil-may-care dimples of a man as corruptly handsome as Edward Morgan Blake.

But Adrian was not so flamingly gay as to let this attraction mar his better judgment. Men like the Comedian were feral dogs and had to be treated as such.

Oh, but if he had a leash and a collar and an hour to waste in some seedy motel room…

No! Such thoughts were vanity, a waste of time. Still, it takes a while for blood to travel _back _into the brain, and while Adrian waited for this to happen he forced himself to play idly with stick notes instead of the erection in his pants…

And _voila! _Flash of inspiration, just as dazzling as tripping on hashish in the stifling heat of the Middle East.

A map! A map was all he needed, a precise and neatly laid out diagram spread from coast to coast. A spiderweb of information cataloguing each state's crimes and the specific needs with which to terminate those crimes.

And sticky notes, of course.

So he set to work, using both prior knowledge and the available outlets at his disposal, gathering crime statistics from each of the fifty states. Drugs, promiscuity, gang wars…Each were carefully catalogued. With care, each sticky note was imprinted in Adrian's swift and delicate script.

To say it was a labor of love was an understatement. With the simple idea, it was burning affection. With the first draft, it was love. With the final product, it was a virtual affair. He could barely keep from wetting himself when he finally revealed it to the Crimebusters on that fateful day in 1966.

September 4th, 1966. He should have engraved it on a tombstone.

Everyone was there. Nite Owl II and his enigmatic partner, Rorschach. Silk Spectre, scantily-clad in what could only barely pass as an outfit. Dr. Manhattan, Janey Slater on one Smurf-blue arm. And, of course, the handsome n'er-do-well himself- Edward Blake.

Adrian could hardly wait to get started. He had everything planned out, from his genial introduction to the earth-shaking conclusion. God, this was going to be the speech to end all speeches, the plan to end all plans!

The best-laid schemes of mice and men…

He supposed he should've seen it coming. Blake was a comedian through and through, though his sense of humor was questionable at best.

Besides, didn't he _always _have a damn cigar hanging from his lips?

Adrian watched in silence as his most precious invention- his prize, his _baby_- was burnt to a crisp, the kind of devastated silence you can only expect from the sight of a nuclear explosion.

He had spent _hours _on that damn map. And Blake had destroyed it.

From then on out, his plans no longer included the welfare of crime-ridden states. No, this time it was personal.

But assassination had never been his strong suit. He could kill, but it made his stomach queasy. Hell, he didn't even eat meat! Still, he was resolved. It had to be done. Men like Blake could not be allowed to live. Men like Blake probably took candy from babies.

But how to go about it?

He had always had a taste for the theatric, the extravagant. It crossed his mind that an intrinsic field center would not be terribly difficult to come by. Barely a penny out of his overinflated pocket.

But the possibility that Blake would come back as a nuclear-blue nudist was too much of a risk to take, not to mention if he thought too much about it he lost all blood flow to his head.

So that was out.

He supposed he could do it mafia style. It would be simple to tie cement blocks to Blake's feet and drop him in the Hudson. Yes, simple…

Too simple. It needed more style! But what?

And then it hit him.

You _could_ even say...

...it fell right out of the sky.

A/N: Yay! My first attempt at a parody! Hope it wasn't too pathetic :P This idea just kinda fell right out of the sky (haha I couldn't help it!) when I was watching the movie. That look Veidt gives Blake at the meeting... Anyway! If you liked it, I hope you review, even it's just a short one-worder. xoxo


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